


victims of the night

by Tropical



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, dumb boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-26 15:03:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7578700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tropical/pseuds/Tropical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Brat.”  There’s a smile in Shiro’s tone.  “Come on, this’ll be easier than running a sim.”</p>
<p>It is not easier than running a sim.<br/>-<br/>or: Keith is incompetent at dancing, among other things.  Fortunately, he's in good company.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. easy silence

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic, Garrison training takes 5-6 years. Shiro is in his 4th year, and Keith is in his 3rd.
> 
> No beta, so please forgive the lack of polish. I'm just very tired of looking at this, so I figured I needed to get it out there.

“Have you gotten your dress uniform cleaned yet?”

Keith pauses, furrowing his brow before glancing up at his roommate.  He is pretty sure the question is completely unrelated to human physiology in zero-G, which is what they’re studying – or rather, what Keith is studying.  Shiro is just reviewing anything and everything he ever learned at the Garrison in overzealous preparation for his end-of-year assessments.

‘Just.’  Right.

If he thought about it, the information in Keith’s notes had some pretty broad applications.  All it took was one professor taking the theories and applying it sideways on a test, and he could kiss his position goodbye – hell, he’s heard the horror stories.  If it happened before, it could happen again.  So it was also possible that, in an attempt to forewarn Keith, Shiro sprang this question on him.

On the other hand, Shiro was usually a lot more straightforward when it came to their study sessions; it was more likely he had switched topics without warning.

As if he could let Shiro get away with that again.  “I don’t think uniforms have anything to do with the rates of muscle atrophication,” Keith deadpans, shifting back in his chair as Shiro huffs a laugh.  It’s a good look on the older cadet, and still uncommon enough that it makes intensely aware of how stilted things had been before.

He’s glad things aren’t like before.

“No, it doesn’t, but– “ Shiro twirls his pen as he glances at their calendar, “– Your exams are on Thursday, right?”

“Yeah, at 0800.  Exactly how I like to start my mornings.”

Keith’s dry tone earns him another quick grin, before Shiro continues, “Thursday night’s the military ball, and you really don’t want to leave prep to the last minute.  Best case scenario, you’ll end up shelling out for a private cleaning service and getting charged through the nose.”

“Have a lot of experience with that?”  Ugh.  “Do I have to go?  I didn’t last year.”

Shiro’s smile takes a distinctly sympathetic slant, and that’s enough of an answer for Keith.  He groans, dropping his head onto his notes with a dull thud.  The Garrison is usually pretty lax about military formality; as long as he keeps his clothes clean, his hair trimmed, and the sharp side of his tongue to himself, they don’t care if he’s a beat too late with his ‘sir’s, or if his salutes are a sloppy.  After all, their professors insist, they weren’t there to teach cadets how to go to war – they were there to teach them how to soar.

But on the flipside are the soirees the general public does have access to.  In particular, the Military Ball.  When the Galaxy Garrison forces batches of unlucky cadets into spit-shined shoes and pressed uniforms with bars and tassels and things.  And there are photos and _dancing_ and just.  Way too much mandatory mingling.

But the worst part, besides the dancing, is how everyone at the Garrison goes completely nuts in anticipation of the event.  Keith can’t understand it – sure, their schedules were on the grueling side, but who would get excited over _more_ formality?  And for what?  The chance to stand in a sweat stenched hall, eat slightly less crappy cafeteria food in tiny portions, and awkwardly shuffle around with another cadet?

“I don’t even know how to dance,” he mumbles into his scrawls on ‘blasts and ‘clasts.  Why did he even need to know this stuff?  Half the health problems space explorers used to suffer vanished when science finally developed artificial gravity generators.

Although, if he had been suffering from bone degeneration, no one would expect him to dance…

Keith hears Shiro quietly laugh again, before a warm hand cards through his hair, ruffling it gently.  He knows that if he looks up, Shiro will be smiling fondly down at him, the way he did when Keith did something especially ‘silly’.

But it’s Shiro, so he doesn’t feel any particular desire to punch him for his bemusement.

“Don’t worry, the dancing doesn’t last all night.  And– “  Shiro continues, running over Keith’s near attempt to pointedly remind him that ‘not all night’ is not synonymous with ‘you can get through it without ever stepping on the dance floor’, “– Since I’ve got three years of mandated Ball attendance behind me, I can probably teach you enough to make it through in one piece.”

Keith closes his mouth sullenly as he mulls the offer over.  Eventually, he tilts his head up to squint at the senior cadet.  The senior cadet, still smiling, raises an eyebrow at Keith.

“… So how much does three years of getting your dress uniform cleaned at the last minute cost?” Keith grins as Shiro’s hand slides down to playfully shove at his shoulder.

“Brat.” There’s a smile in Shiro’s tone.  “Come on, this’ll be easier than running a sim.”

-

It is not easier than running a sim.

See, Keith _likes_ the mission simulator.  He likes the habitat simulators, he _especially_ likes the flight simulators – hell, he can even make an argument for the ‘Everything is FUBAR, do what you can’ simulators.

Keith really, really doesn’t like dancing.

He scowls, feeling Shiro’s shoulders jump and tremble beneath his hand.  Naturally, Keith balls up his other hand into a fist and thumps the snickering teen in the chest.

It just makes Shiro laugh louder.  Which makes Keith’s scowl fiercer, and he hits him harder.

“Ow – Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” Shiro tilts his head back, taking deep breaths to calm his chortles.  Jerk.  “Sorry, I just – You’re doing really well, but you keep frowning like your feet have betrayed you, and that makes you stumble, which makes you glare harder…”

Keith rolls his eyes, settling his hands back in their former resting position.  “I just.  Feel dumb,” he mutters, darting his gaze down, “All we’re doing is walking around in a tiny circle, but if I don’t watch the ground, I can’t keep track of the steps.”

“Everyone starts somewhere, Keith.”  Shiro’s voice is achingly kind, and Keith instinctively bristles, except – of course he’s not mocking or patronizing Keith.  Even at his worst, Shiro’s never been cruel to him.

Remote, on the other hand…

Slowly, he exhales in one, long gust and forces his shoulders to loosen – it’s a pleasant surprise when calm comes almost immediately, a reassuring one.  When he first entered the Garrison, he’d been quick to pique, and slow to placate.  But he can let his anger go now.  He’s making progress.  

One more breath, and then slowly, inexorably, Keith tips his gaze up to meet Shiro’s eternally patient one.  Ignoring the mild swoop that crops up whenever he makes eye contact with Shiro – he still hasn’t gotten used to the action, but he will - Keith tilts his head and asks, “How long did it take you to stop watching your feet?”

“Probably around formal number seven?  At the beginning of my third year.”  Shiro’s smile twists into something more wry, a sign he’s not fond of the topic and would rather discuss anything else.

But Keith can’t back down from this, wants to get closer to putting together his patchwork understanding of what happened, so he barrels ahead, “Back when the admins stepped up their recruitment and had you–?”

“That’s the one,” his roommate sighs, and practically droops.  That’s enough of a confirmation that Keith willingly drops the subject, guilt pricking at him, and instead chooses to awkwardly pat him on the back a few times.  It should be sickening how easily he caved, how easily that little gesture makes Shiro perk up, but…

Shiro’s not the only one who’s glad his third year is over.

“Anyways, dancing.  You lead this round, and I’ll keep time, okay?”

That just prompts another twist in his gut, because Keith is _very sure_ he’s nowhere near ready to lead, even if it is just shuffling from one point of a triangle to another and rotating a bit.

So maybe he’s overreacting a bit.  But the idea of leading _Shiro_ , who’s easily got a full head and at least twenty pounds on him, who beats him about three out of five times on the mats, who’s ranked at the top of almost every class—

Who drags himself through trial after trial he’s thrown into by sheer will-power.  Whose calls home have steadily dwindled down to once a week obligations.

Who was so unabashedly delighted when Keith’s flight scores overtook his.

“… Are you going to count or not?”

Keith swears he can feel the smile Shiro gives him, before he softly starts keeping time, scores of 1-2-3 beating in Keith’s ear until he can feel his pulse begin to sync.  It’s like he can feel the tempo in his skin, the same way he feels the vibrations of a flight sim and knows in his bones how much more his ‘aircraft’ can take.

Keith hasn’t crashed a sim in months.  He can do this.

One breath, two, and on the up-beat, he finally moves, stepping forward as Shiro obligingly steps back.  To the side, with a 45 degree turn, and he could practically see the geometry of it in his head.  Then turn again, and return to the starting position.  Again and again, and keep turning, turning, turning –

Another reason to figure out how to dance without looking at his feet: he could avoid motion sickness.  His usual methods – breathing deeply, focusing on some other sensation – were only worsening the churning in his gut.

Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained.  He waits until they once again spin to home, before quickly raising his eyes.  Then raises them further, because Keith is pretty sure dance partners aren’t supposed to stare at each other’s clavicles.

Huh.  Shiro has really long eyelashes.

“Thank you.”  The corner of Shiro’s mouth ticks up, even as Keith feels the back of his neck start to burn.  He hadn’t meant to say that out loud.  “Are you blushing, Keith?”

“You could just open your eyes and see for yourself.”

“Mm, nope.  I’m concentrating on being led.  And keeping time.”

Keith rolls his eyes, “’Concentrating on being led’?  What does that even _mean_?”  His incredulous question hits a pitch just high enough to crack his voice, which of course set Shiro off.  “Stop laughing.”

“But Keith,“ Shiro peaks one eye open as he grins, “If you can’t laugh with your dance partner, who can you laugh with?”

“You’re not laughing with me, you’re laughing _at_ me,” Keith bites out sourly.  The older cadet just drops his head, muffling his snorts in the junction of Keith’s shoulder as Keith feels himself roll his eyes even harder.  How _anyone_ thought Takashi Shirogane was the paragon of maturity was a question that still baffled him.  “I’ll drop you on your face if you don’t stop,” he warns.

It takes Shiro a few minutes to finally pull himself together, but eventually Keith feels his fits of giggles die away.  Except a minute passes, then two, and his head still doesn’t rise to resume keeping time.  Keith frowns.  Thanks to their proximity, he could feel vibrations rumbling in Shiro’s chest – was he purring?  Snoring?  Had he fallen asleep standing up again?  “Shiro?”

Shiro doesn’t move, merely increases his humming – of course it was humming, Shiro didn’t purr like a cat – to audible levels.

It’s a nice song.  Simple, but sweeping.  It makes Keith think of soaring above the cloud line, flying easy, unending turns without having to worry about shifting winds.

It also sounds vaguely familiar.  Which is enough to make Keith suspicious.

He comes to a standstill, barely aware of Shiro halting his steps with him, as his brow furrows.  It definitely sounds like something he’s heard before, but Keith has never been that big on music; Shiro’s usually the one playing any and all kinds of background noise during down time – he claims it helps him unwind.  But if Shiro knows it so well he can hum it from memory, he must have listened to it repeatedly, which he only did with a few select songs…

“… Shiro?”  A faint noise of acknowledgement.  “Are you humming a song from your dinosaur movie?”  Silence.  “ _Shiro._ ”

His dance partner’s shoulders start shaking, and that is all the proof Keith needs.  “You are such a nerd.”

Shiro’s laughter rings out, clear and bright, “You remembered it!  I’m touched, Keith.”

“You watch that dumb movie at least once a week, how could I not?”  There is no reason Shiro should look so pleased; Keith hadn’t done anything particularly special.  Exasperated by his reaction, Keith releases his grip on his roommate and takes a step back, grimacing as his stomach flipped at his abrupt change in actions.  “Okay, I’m done.  I’m going back to studying after I get something to drink.”

“What, you don’t want to learn how to dip people?”

“Not from a nerd who thinks dinosaur songs are a good accompaniment choice.”

Shiro’s snickers chase after him, causing a fond warmth to blossom in between his ribs.  Thankfully, the automated door quickly slides shut behind him, cutting off the sound and more importantly, Shiro’s line of sight.  Safe from the chance of encouraging more fits of hysterics in the other cadet, Keith can finally let loose the smile he had been struggling to suppress.

Dork.

-

Shiro’s dance lessons prove to be remarkably helpful, regardless of his taste in music; he can’t tear up the dance floor like a few louder, more enthusiastic students, but he doesn’t step on his partner either.  In fact, Keith’s single, required turn around the hall goes painlessly for all parties involved.  He’s free, he doesn’t have to stick around anymore.

Which begged the question of why he was.

Keith scowls, arms already crossed and stomach knotting uncomfortably.  Why was he still here?  He had done his time, no one could reprimand him if he snuck off to get some more training or studying in.  And it wasn’t like anyone would notice him, or more aptly, the lack of him.  Keith may not have had enemies in the Garrison, but at most, he was tolerated.  He certainly didn’t have friends.

Unbidden, his gaze darts up to glance at Shiro, who is still stuck standing in a small knot of cadets and commanding officers.  He’s nodding, smiling at various points in the discussion, seemingly at ease.  To Keith’s eyes, he looks completely irritated, and terrifically bored.  It’s easy enough to see it in the tension of his shoulders, the slight plasticity of his smile, the way his brow seems to droop.

For a few minutes, Keith sizes the distance between them, considers inserting himself in the conversation to steal Shiro away, save him from glad-handing all night.  But no, just as he is finally about to step forward, a veritable swarm of professors and people Shiro actually _likes_ descend on the group, distracting the higher ups and shooing the Garrison’s shining star out of their stranglehold.  The glimpse of blatant relief on his face makes Keith grin, even as his throat tightens and his gaze drops away.  He feels out of his depth.  Keith and Shiro were still feeling out their relationship, the give and take of friendship in the place of determined apathy, but it would have been normal to step in there, wouldn’t it?  It would have been natural, expected even, wouldn’t it?

Too slow, too hesitant to make a difference – his eyes dart up involuntarily, and Shiro’s are already there, calm and steady.  The look drains his disappointment, smothers his frustration to something softer, gentler as his roommate smiles minutely at him through the crowds, across the hall, across a galaxy.

But they weren’t so remote anymore, were they?  Not quite so far, if they could both extend their hands and reach.

Shiro tilts his head at the dancefloor, eyes crinkling, face relaxing to natural fondness, maybe even happiness.

It’s a very good look for him.

Keith smiles back, just as minute, and shakes his head at the question.  He has returned to center, feet firmly planted, but he still doesn’t feel comfortable enough to venture that distance and brave the whirling crowd with Shiro, for Shiro.  And Shiro easily accepts Keith’s refusal with a nod of acknowledgement, calmly lets one of his classmates draw him back into a conversation.  Like he hadn’t been dying for an out three minutes ago, like it was okay Keith couldn’t give him one when he needed it.

Like he could wait forever for Keith to bridge those last few inches.

He probably could.

Keith hadn’t been decisive enough this time.  He wouldn’t be next time.

And maybe next year, he thought as his stomach swooped, he would accept.


	2. let's not make it harder than it has to be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Keith had wanted to ask him years ago, and Shiro had never noticed. If Shiro could laugh at every snarl and stumble, and all Keith could offer was a handful of complaints and unfulfilled threats. If they could stand this close, and still wonder if they were divided by an impassible gulf —
> 
> Shiro reaches out, tangles his flesh and blood fingers with Keith’s. It feels natural, the logical next step of their dance.

“No, no, no, it’s step, step, turn, step, twirl, jump–“

“You said step, turn, turn, jump last time!”

“Well, it’s a three sixty turn, that’s basically the same thing as a twirl! “

Shiro eyes the currently bickering duo of Lance and Pidge, before sighing and scooting further into the shadow of the hall’s pillar.  Of all the possibilities he could have imagined when he somehow became the leader of a group of pilots flying around in mystical lion robots, suffering through more dancing was not one of them.

Over breakfast, Allura had informed them that the Castle of Lions had hosted a great many peaceful gatherings at the height of Altean civilization.  Nostalgia had glistened in her and Coran’s eyes as they waxed poetic about evenings when countless civilizations across the galaxies all gathered together under one hall, nights of spectacular sights, smells, and sounds all melting and melding into one.  Clearly, they held such events in high regard, and their fondness proved infectious, nearly bringing several of the paladins to tears.

Shiro had been a bit more skeptical.  He had a feeling such gatherings were a great deal more complicated than the rosy picture their Altean companions painted.  But apparently, there had been a more practical point to the sudden trip down memory lane.  During their time on Arus, there had been a small diplomatic misunderstanding, and the princess, upon recollection, decided the easiest way to prevent such further incidents was to refresh herself on the more peaceful methods of negotiation.  Naturally, as representatives of peace, Voltron, and universal good will, the paladins also needed instruction in such areas.  A great deal of it, Coran wryly commented, after a quick series of questions around the dining table revealed their ignorance in ‘the utter basics of galactic conduct’.

Apparently, one of the universal methods of ingratiating one’s self to any given society was to dance with them.  Or for them, Allura had hastily amended, when she saw Lance puff up in pride.  Not that it diminished the gleam in the Blue Paladin’s eye – hell, if anything, her added comment made Hunk perk up and beam as well.

Pidge had looked about as excited about the idea as Shiro felt.

Ultimately, the dance-shy members of the team were outnumbered by the enthusiasts, which meant instead of a day of bonding exercises, sparring, and tactical theorizing, the paladins were ushered into a grand hall that had apparently been the centerpiece of diplomatic galas ages past.

Lance had immediately honed in on Allura as a dance partner, until Coran intercepted him.  Allura used the moment of respite to latch onto Hunk, as she apparently couldn’t instruct them without physically participating, and declared one of the remaining paladins would have to sit out for a few rounds.  Pidge seemed ready to bolt at the offer, and nearly did until Shiro pulled rank and insisted on abstaining from the activities.  Upon questioning, he had shrugged, and said he’d gotten plenty of dance practice during his Garrison years.  On the other hand, Pidge probably hadn’t gotten the same amount of exposure, and surely she could use the extra experience more then he, right?

The memory of Pidge’s dirty look for that little stunt almost makes him shudder.  He makes a mental note to watch his back around the Green Paladin for the next few weeks.  Or months.  Maybe longer if the princess insists on more dance sessions.

“Hey.”

Shiro blinks, emerging from his thoughts on the possibility of future Pidge evasion maneuvers, and finds Keith standing in front of him.  There’s an air of tension hovering around the Red Paladin that Shiro quite doesn’t understand; had something happened while he’d been distracted?  Regardless of the cause, he can’t help but respond.  It’s almost automatic, his want to reassure Keith, to ease the stress in his furrowed brow, and just as natural as his smile before he answers, “Hey.  What brings you here?”

“Wondering why you’re still sitting out,” comes the short reply.  “Pidge finally cut and ran, so the numbers are uneven again.”  A pause, as Keith’s gaze darts away, just like it used to in their early Garrison years, and he shifts his weight.  “You could join us.”

Automatically, Shiro’s shoulders jump, tense, with confusion and a tinge of embarrassment on the heels of his reaction – it’s just a dance, after all.

Still, the idea of getting out there, a gleaming target in the middle of a vast unknown, makes some part of him shrink in dread.  Nothing he can’t muscle through, but if he has a choice…  “They’re working on a line dance, Keith.  I don’t think one more or less person makes a difference.”  Shiro leans back against the pillar he’s been lurking by, and attempts to casually cross his arms, broadcasting neutral disinterest while at the same time making himself a less noticeable figure.  He can hear Allura calling for them to pair up again, and since they’re down a Pidge, that means he will be dragged out unless he can sneak away.  Maybe he can persuade Keith to come with him, so no one’s left glaringly standing on the sidelines – “I didn’t think you were that big on dancing.”

“I’m not.  But– “  Here, Keith’s gaze drops yet again, and something in Shiro’s throat tightens.  Could one year really have this much of an effect on their friendship?  Or has he changed too much, to the point that distance between them was inevitable?

The possibilities make him ache.

Keith takes an audible breath, and the sound of Keith, the reminder of his proximity, pulls him up, out of his downward drifting thoughts.  He’s being foolish – of course they’ve both changed.  How could anyone _not_ change in the face everything they’ve been through?  But there’s no reason to think things have deteriorated; they’re relearning each other all the time, adjusting and evolving.  It doesn’t have to be a bad thing.

Then Keith lifts his head and makes direct eye contact with Shiro, and all his thoughts just – scatter, because Keith’s gaze is a blow to his chest.  It’s a slap to the back and the lingering imprint, it’s the sense of vertigo when pulling out of a freefall, it’s lying under the desert’s night sky and baking anyways from the trapped heat in the sand.  It is a wildfire and Keith is scorching Shiro from the inside out, burning him down, scraping him out, cleansing, purifying.

He is, Shiro distantly realizes, probably blushing.  Where in the world did Keith learn to transmit his intensity, his forth-righted nature in a single glance?

“But it’s fine with you,” Keith says, throat bobbing as he swallows and Shiro scrambles for the thread of their conversation.  Dancing.  Right, dancing, and how Keith still doesn’t like it, but he could ask Shiro, because – “I _want_ to dance with you.”

The sentence strikes him dumb with the sheer weight of it.  He’s staring, and barely manages to gather the air to whisper Keith’s name when a revelation blindsides him:

Keith isn’t uncomfortable, he’s _nervous_.

“I was – I was going to ask you,” the paladin continues, words coming in fits and starts, like he’s trying to convey an ocean of meaning, choking on it because he can’t bear the possibility of picking a single wrong phrase.  “Not.  The year you taught me, but.  The next one.  But then your return mission got delayed, so you missed that one.”

Shiro had been, at the time, thankful for the solar flare-ups causing all kinds of interference in the equipment.  It meant he was afforded extra time in the vastness of space, and could miss his fourth consecutive Garrison Military Ball without fear of formal reprimand.

Now he just feels guilty.  “Keith, I didn’t–“

The smile cuts him short, and when did Keith get so close?  “I know, it’s fine.  I could have asked when you got back, but…”  A shrug.  “I guess I figured there was always next year.”

Except by next year, Shiro had flown to Kerberos, flown into captivity and the Galran fighting pits.

They share a moment of silence, or perhaps a moment of grief for the things lost in that year, before Keith forges on.

“But you’re here now, and so am I, and I’m tired of waiting for ‘next year.’”  Keith hesitates, eyes searching Shiro’s, before he repeats, “Really tired of waiting.”  In case Shiro somehow didn’t comprehend the sentiment.

And… Well, if Keith had wanted to ask him years ago, and Shiro had never noticed.  If Shiro could laugh at every snarl and stumble, and all Keith could offer was a handful of complaints and unfulfilled threats.  If they could stand this close, and still wonder if they were divided by an impassible gulf —

Shiro reaches out, tangles his flesh and blood fingers with Keith’s.  It feels natural, the next logical step.  “We should talk about this.  Make sure we’re on the same page.”

Keith rolls his eyes, but his lips curl upward, softening the action.  “Yeah, yeah.  Still haven’t answered my question though.”

“There was a question in there?”  Shiro grins at the bone dry look leveled at him, then playfully ducks as Keith holds up a fist.  “Hey, no beating up your dance partner!”

“So you do agree.”  There’s a smirk on Keith’s face, a spark in his eyes, and Shiro is suddenly struck with an urge to cradle his face and kiss the curve of his mouth, until they’re both laughing, shining, breathless.

He’s starting to realize Keith does that to him a lot. 

Not the kissing bit – if he had felt that urge before, it would have saved them a lot of time – but.  Breathlessness.  Awe.

“Ask me anyways,” he manages, smiling as Keith shakes his head in fond exasperation, before he crowds even closer to Shiro.  There is a feeling of pressure around his right hand, contrasting sharply with the immediate, undeniable heat of Keith’s presence.  Shiro would look down, confirm with his own eyes the grip entwining with his false arm, but there isn’t a force in existence that could make him tear his gaze away from the light in Keith’s eyes.

“Shiro–” he tugs Shiro forward, across their divide and into his orbit, “–Dance with me?”

And there’s something _sweet_ about his tone, like asking for a dance, for _this_ dance is something delicate, precious.  Fragile, handle with care – like landing a rover on Pluto, a glorious, terrifying moment of possibility.

“I’d be thrilled to.”  Shiro can’t help but respond in kind; his voice comes out velveteen soft, even gentler than usual, alien to his own ears.  He just hopes some of the affection he feels warming him from ears to toes is conveyed in his tone.

Judging by the way Keith’s ears seem to be reddening, it gets across just fine.  He can feel a grin forming as the Red Paladin finally breaks eye contact, muttering something under his breath about what an embarrassment he is.  Then Keith’s grip on his hands tightens, insistent, and in the blink of an eye, Shiro finds himself practically tumbling into his arms.

It makes Shiro laugh, a thrill of exhilaration running up his spine.  “Someone’s eager,” he murmurs, removing his hand from Keith’s grip just long enough to resettle it lightly on his waist and chase away the gathering discontent in the corner of Keith’s mouth.  Keith huffs and tips his head up again.

“Like I said, I’m tired of waiting.”  Keith’s eyes narrow as he concentrates on Shiro’s face, like he’s trying to scry his inner most thoughts from a single look.  “Aren’t you?”  There’s no accusation in his voice, just a note of curiosity.

Shiro grimaces a bit, before he sighs and admits, “Honestly, I’m trying to wrap my head around it all.”  It sounds ominous, he knows it does.  But he doesn’t mean it that way.  As natural as this feels, it’s also an abrupt readjustment, a picture suddenly coming into focus, and he’s left blinking, windswept, trying to catch up to the shift in perspective.

He wonders if Keith went through this too, during his missing year.

Keith just snorts.  “You think too much.”

That’s probably true.  Shiro tilts his head thoughtfully, before asking, “Should I be thinking about something else?”

“Yes,” Keith immediately replies as he raises a single unimpressed eyebrow.  “Dancing.  With me.”

“I dunno, that doesn’t sound like something I’d need to think about.”

“You said—“  he cuts himself off with a groan that makes Shiro press his lips together to hide another grin.  It’s flattering to think about how many little, inconsequential moments Keith’s saved in the depths of his memories, and how easily he can recall them.  “Just think about something else.”

“Like accompaniment music?”

Silence.

“… If you start singing your dinosaur theme song, I’m dumping you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Lance notices the two of them slow dancing together, he whoops, and starts belting out the lyrics of an old children’s cartoon.  It’s only thanks to Shiro quickly latching onto Keith’s waist, muffling his laughter in the paladin’s neck, that Lance walks away without injury.
> 
> Keith attempts to dip Shiro at some point. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on your point of view, Shiro put on a considerable amount of weight in sheer muscle mass thanks to the Galrans, so he ends up holding himself in a limbo pose to reduce the strain on Keith's noodle arms. Keith is considerably put out when he realizes what's going on. 
> 
> Then he cottons on to amount of abdominal strength Shiro has, and hooooo boy. Wow.

**Author's Note:**

> Shiro was humming the Jurassic Park Theme. I don't blame Keith for being disgusted with him.
> 
> Title taken from WALK THE MOON's "Shut Up and Dance".


End file.
